Balancing the Equation
by V. Laike
Summary: Charlie looked up at his brother, realization dawning on his face. “You called that night, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. Followup to 'Inequal Expressions'.


A/N: This wasn't supposed to happen. I had no intention of writing a follow-up or companion piece to "Inequal Expressions." It was intended to be a stand-alone. But several people asked for more, and one reader phrased the request in such a way as to get Musey to thinking. What follows is the result. If you haven't read "Inequal Expressions," it's not completely necessary, but might help. This takes place somewhere between "Toxin" and "Guns and Roses" in Season 2.

Many thanks to beta Izhilzha. She phrases comments and criticisms in such a way as to get me thinking about lines and passages from a completely different angle, usually with great results.

Disclaimer: As always, nothing belonging to _Numb3rs_ belongs to me. It belongs to those individuals and entities listed in the parade of logos. Many thanks to Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci for sharing their creations with us.

* * *

BALANCING the EQUATION

by

V. Laike

"Hey, Don. I've got those figures you wanted for the bankruptcy fraud case." Charlie Eppes stopped at his brother's desk and balanced the folder on the already sizeable stack in Don's in-box.

"Great. Thanks," Don muttered around the pencil he gripped between his teeth as he typed on his computer.

"Amita and I weren't getting anywhere with our original approach, so we had to use a brute force analysis—"

Don removed the pencil from his mouth. "Brute force I understand," he said distractedly as he jotted something in the file he was working on. He then flipped the file shut, dropped the pencil, and picked up the file Charlie had just given him. "Just let me run this over to the agent who's taking over the case and I'll be ready to grab some lunch." Don opened Charlie's file and scanned the pages, signing off on the documents to ensure that everything was in order.

Charlie couldn't help but look at the file Don had just closed. The name on the file looked familiar, but Charlie couldn't place it. "New case?"

Don looked up from what he was doing and saw what had drawn Charlie's attention. "Old case. One of my Fugitive Recovery collars is up for parole. The local AUSA wanted me to review the file, make sure everything is in order on my end."

Charlie swallowed, uncomfortable with the implications of Don's revisiting an old Fugitive Recovery case. "New Mexico?"

Don nodded, his attention back on the bankruptcy fraud file.

"Will you have to appear in court?" Charlie hadn't understood back then what his brother's job had entailed. He wasn't completely sure he understood it now, but he understood enough to know that those had not been easy times for Don. And that didn't even take into account what might happen if someone Don was responsible for incarcerating were to be released. _That_ didn't bear thinking about.

Don clicked his computer mouse, closing out the form he was working on and bringing up the password screen. "Nah, not this time. I can do my end over the phone. If they need someone from the recovery team, they can call Coop. He's in Albuquerque. Or the guys from the Federal Marshal's."

"Good," Charlie said, trying to sound casual.

"Everything looks good here." Don closed the bankruptcy file and rose from his chair. "Just hang tight for a minute. I'll be right back." He clapped his brother on the arm as he passed, walking quickly down the hall and disappearing around a corner.

Charlie sat in Don's chair and slid the fugitive recovery file across the desk toward himself. _Rachins, Harold Frank_. Why did that name sound familiar? He opened the file and looked at the criminal's mug shot. The cold gray eyes and lopsided, arrogant grin that stared back at Charlie didn't look familiar in the least. The long, greasy hair added to the appearance of someone whom Charlie would cross to the other side of the street to avoid—the type of person Charlie suspected Don encountered all too often when he was working Fugitive Recovery. Charlie was glad to have his brother back in L.A. In reality, the criminals were no less dangerous—in many instances, they were more conniving and skilled, a higher class of criminal—but at least Don didn't have to be in the field 24/7, living out of a gas station men's room and surviving on Cheez-Its and beef jerky. And his family was close at hand if he needed them. Charlie turned the page.

Vital statistics and background. Charlie skimmed the page, noting the crimes Rachins had committed. After four years in prison for those crimes—less than a third of his fifteen-year sentence—Rachins had escaped from the Penitentiary of New Mexico. During the five months between his escape and his capture, he'd murdered six college students and was about to flee to Mexico with a hostage when Don, Billy Cooper, and a combined FBI/Federal Marshal task force apprehended him outside of Rodeo. Why did this sound so familiar?

Charlie skipped past crime scene photos and descriptions until he found Don's statement, typed neatly and signed at the bottom with the agent's familiar scrawl. As Charlie scanned the page, certain words jumped out at him and he felt a clenching in his gut—words like _high-caliber rifle_, _GSW_, _through-and-through_. Charlie's fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page to find the hospital report detailing the extent of Don's injury and the damage the torn muscles and other tissue had sustained, as well as the treatment. Don never limped, so the damage obviously had not been permanent. When Charlie reached the photos taken at the hospital—photos of Don's upper thigh, with an ugly red-black but relatively clean hole through the front and a larger, more ragged hole through the back—he could go no further.

In his mind's eye, Charlie saw the scene play out—Don and Billy Cooper, each clad in Kevlar, in the middle of a firefight . . . Don, trying to "stay small," breaking cover amid the sharp, rapid cracks and layered stuttering of gunfire . . . Don, closing in on the criminal's location, maybe getting to a position where he could see—even rescue—the hostage . . . Don, falling hard to the ground, his leg shot out from under him when a bullet hits its mark . . . Don, lying on the ground in the dry New Mexican heat, bleeding, in pain, completely exposed . . . blood pooling underneath him, his odds of survival decreasing with each passing moment . . . bullets flying past him, hitting the ground next to him, their trajectory missing him by inches . . . Cooper, dragging Don to safety, maybe laying down cover fire to cover their escape . . . Don, gritting his teeth against the pain, panting with exertion, struggling to hang onto Cooper as Coop hauls him roughly across the dirt . . . blood saturating the leg of Don's jeans, staining the ground where Don had lain . . .

Charlie looked at the date, then closed the file. He'd been living back East at the time, sharing an apartment with Susan Berry. He and Don hadn't been particularly close at that point. Don hardly ever called. There had just been a handful of times . . . wait . . .

_Tossing his keys in the basket on the table just inside the entry, he raced to grab the ringing phone. It had better not be one of his students calling to complain about the mid-term. He didn't have time tonight._

_Charlie's brain had to backpedal a few steps. Of all the callers he would be expecting, his brother wasn't one of them._

_Charlie looked at the clock on the wall. If he didn't leave within the next three minutes, he'd be late for the symposium. He really didn't have time to stop and chat._

"You ready to go, buddy?" Don was reaching past Charlie to retrieve the jacket that hung on the back of the office chair.

Charlie looked up at his brother, realization dawning on his face. "You called that night, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

Don furrowed his brow. "Called when?"

Charlie tapped the closed Rachins file. "I was on my way to a symposium with Susan. You—you called just as I was getting ready to leave."

Don shrugged in that casual way he had that said everything was under control, don't worry about it. "I might have. I don't remember."

"You called," Charlie repeated emphatically. "You—you lied."

Don's eyes shifted away briefly before returning to his brother, and Charlie knew that Don was about to gloss over this the way he always did. Don pulled out the chair at Megan's desk. "Listen, Charlie, I—"

Charlie leveled an accusing gaze as his brother sat down. "You said you were going out to celebrate with Billy Cooper." Then a new realization struck. "Please. Please tell me you didn't go out partying with a bullet hole in your leg."

Don quirked a smile and cocked his head in wry amusement. "No. No, I didn't go out partying that night. I didn't make it much farther than the distance from the couch to my bed. The pain killers were doing a real number on me."

Charlie dropped his gaze. "Pain killers. That's why you sounded so distracted."

Don sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Yeah, I wasn't on my game when I called you that night. I should have waited, but Mom and Dad insisted."

Charlie looked at his brother. "You thought they'd fill me in, right?"

"That was the plan."

"Well, they didn't," Charlie said tersely. "Mom asked if you'd called, but that was it."

"Yeah, well . . ." Don chuffed a laugh. "I spent the next six weeks on leave, followed by another month riding a desk. No big deal."

"Really?" Charlie glared at his brother from under his dark brows.

"Okay, three weeks on leave and a month working out of a surveillance van." Don looked at his watch. "It was ages ago. It's no big deal."

"Right," Charlie said softly, with a touch of regret. "Was that . . . was that the first time you got shot?"

"Yeah, it was. Look, it was years ago. Don't sweat it." Don rolled the chair over to Charlie and slapped him companionably on the knee.

Charlie pressed his lips together and nodded distractedly. He tried to recall any conversation he'd had with Don previous to the Rachins takedown, the conversation that could have been their last, but he couldn't remember. It had been so long ago. He'd been caught up in his own life. What if he had lost his brother? What if he'd never gotten the chance to . . .

After a brief silence, Don rolled the chair he was sitting in back to Megan's desk with a push of his legs. Charlie knew that as far as Don was concerned, the conversation was at an end. _You could have died_, Charlie thought, but he knew pointing this out would be of no use. He'd seen Don carry on through any number of life-threatening situations, some resulting from Charlie's own math, some not. It was small comfort to know that there was absolutely nothing he could have done about the Rachins case. Instead, he voiced what he was thinking about himself. "I blew you off. You got shot, and I blew you off."

"Look, hey, no. Don't worry about it. You had better things to do than listen to your doped-up brother on a long-distance phone call."

Charlie offered his brother a small smile. That was par for the course of late, Don's forgiving Charlie when the younger brother fell short. And Don's trivializing any work-related injury he might sustain. Even when said injury involved nitrocellulose and a metal projectile.

"You ready to go?" Don asked as he rose from Megan's chair and slid into his jacket.

Charlie shook himself out of his thoughts. "Sure." He rose and followed Don to the elevator.

Waiting in front of the elevator as the doors slid open, the men stepped aside to allow the occupants to exit. Charlie smirked to himself as Don gave the women a charming smile and offered them a professional but very friendly good afternoon. The brothers stepped into the elevator, and Don hit the button for the ground floor. Charlie watched the numbers above the doors light up as the car descended.

"You know something, Don?"

"What?"

"I'm glad you're back."

Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie caught the smile—the warm, appreciative, self-conscious smile that Don rarely let anyone outside the family see.

"Yeah? Well, so am I."

* * *

Don Eppes sat at his desk and absently rubbed his right palm across his right thigh before picking up the pencil and opening the file in front of him. It had been a long time since he'd given any serious thought to the case he was reviewing; only when he noted the scar on his right thigh as he showered did he fleetingly recall the circumstances surrounding the acquisition of the mark in question. Now, reviewing the Rachins file for accuracy, re-reading his report and the clinical description of his injury, and seeing the graphic photos of the wound brought things back in stark relief. Don placed the pencil in his mouth as he began typing his report confirming the file's information.

He considered himself fortunate that a bullet hole in his leg was all he'd received—things could have been much worse. If Coop hadn't pulled him out of the firefight when he did, who knew how long it might have taken Don to drag himself to safety, how much blood he might have lost, or how many more holes he might have come away with. But when Rachins cut off communication after nine hours of negotiations, and the girl he had with him started screaming for help, Don knew things were going south. He had to try to get a better line of sight, to get a shot off or advise the snipers where the hostage was. Rachins had taken the first shot, law enforcement returned fire, and Don went down. Forensics confirmed that it had been Rachins' bullet that had wounded him, and luckily Don had been the only casualty. Coop had half-carried/half-dragged Don to cover as Don, hanging onto Coop's shoulder, gritted his teeth against the deep burning in his leg, feeling the wet ooze of blood trace down his limb. They received word through their earpieces a short time later that Rachins had been taken out by a Federal Marshal sniper. The girl, fourteen-year-old Marie Souix, had been treated for cuts and abrasions, but her wounds were more psychological—she'd been scared more than anything. Thank God.

"Hey, Don. I've got those figures you wanted for the bankruptcy fraud case." Out of the corner of his eye, Don saw his brother stop on the other side of the cubical wall, reach over, and drop another file onto the already sizeable stack in his in-box.

"Great. Thanks," Don muttered around the pencil he gripped between his teeth as he continued typing. Just one more piece of information to update and confirm, and he could put the Rachins file behind him for another several years.

"Amita and I weren't getting anywhere with our original approach, so we had to use a brute force analysis—"

Don removed the pencil from his mouth. "Brute force I understand," he said as he made a note in the margins of a page and dated and initialed his comments. He then flipped the file shut, dropped the pencil, and picked up the file Charlie had just given him. "Just let me run this over to the agent who's taking over the case and I'll be ready to grab some lunch." Clicking an ink pen, Don opened Charlie's file and scanned the pages, signing off on the documents to ensure that everything was in order.

Everything looked great, as usual. The numbers didn't make much sense to Don, but Charlie had highlighted the relevant figures, making the pages much easier to read.

"New case?"

Don looked up from what he was doing and saw what had drawn his brother's attention. Charlie was eyeing the Rachins file. He didn't need to know the specifics of that one, so Don opted for the casual approach to avoid arousing Charlie's suspicions.

"Old case," Don said. "One of my Fugitive Recovery collars is up for parole. The local AUSA wanted me to review the file, make sure everything is in order on my end."

"New Mexico?"

Don nodded and flipped another page of the bankruptcy file.

"Will you have to appear in court?" Don heard a note of hesitancy in Charlie's voice, and the agent knew it best not to go into detail.

With the click of the mouse, Don brought up the password screen on his computer. "Nah, not this time. I can do my end over the phone. If they need someone from the recovery team, they can call Coop. He's in Albuquerque. Or the guys from the Federal Marshal's."

"Good," Charlie said, but Don recognized the forced casualness.

"Everything looks good here." Don closed the bankruptcy file and rose from his chair. "Just hang tight for a minute. I'll be right back." He clapped his brother on the arm as he passed, walking quickly down the hall.

It was a relief to get rid of the bankruptcy fraud case. Don had a dozen cases in various stages of investigation, and getting rid of just one would be a welcome lightening of the load. And with the work Charlie and Amita had put into it, the new agents on the case should have no problem picking up where Don's team was leaving off. Certain forensic accountants in the office were already familiar with Charlie's _modus operandi_, and Don suspected that this case would be closed soon, with the new team just following up on the previous legwork.

Don made a quick errand of delivering the file, hoping that for once Charlie would not let his curiosity get the better of him where the Rachins file was concerned. That case had been very intense for everyone involved, but the good guys had come out on top, Don's leg had healed nicely, and the case was closed. Don was back home with his family now, and he wasn't planning on leaving any time soon. He hoped that for once Charlie would leave well enough alone.

As he made his way back to his workspace, Don noticed Charlie sitting at the desk, lost in thought, wearing that expression that said he was about to make a mental breakthrough. Charlie's mind never stopped working.

"You ready to go, buddy?" Don reached past Charlie to retrieve the jacket that hung on the back of the office chair.

Charlie looked up, and Don saw realization dawn on his brother's face. "You called that night, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

Don furrowed his brow. "Called when?"

Charlie tapped the closed Rachins file. "I was on my way to a symposium with Susan. You—you called just as I was getting ready to leave."

There it was, the primary reason Don hadn't wanted to get into details: the phone call. Don shrugged casually, downplaying the seriousness of what had happened. "I might have. I don't remember."

"You called," Charlie repeated emphatically. "You—you lied."

Busted. Don's eyes shifted away briefly before returning to his brother. He pulled out the chair at Megan's desk. "Listen, Charlie, I—"

Charlie leveled an accusing gaze as Don sat down. "You said you were going out to celebrate with Billy Cooper." A new awareness appeared on Charlie's face. "Please. Please tell me you didn't go out partying with a bullet hole in your leg."

Don offered a wry smile and cocked his head. "No. No, I didn't go out partying that night. I didn't make it much farther than the distance from the couch to my bed. The pain killers were doing a real number on me."

Charlie dropped his gaze. "Pain killers. That's why you sounded so distracted."

Sighing, Don leaned back in the chair. "Yeah, I wasn't on my game when I called you that night. I should have waited, but Mom and Dad insisted."

Charlie looked at Don. "You thought they'd fill me in, right?"

"That was the plan." Well, sort of. He hadn't really expected them to fill Charlie in on the gory details. Heck, Don hadn't even told _them_ the "gory" details. It was an unspoken agreement that Charlie didn't _really_ need to know more than his brilliant but distracted mind could put together on its own.

"Well, they didn't," Charlie said bluntly. "Mom asked if you'd called, but that was it."

"Yeah, well . . ." Don huffed a laugh. "I spent the next six weeks on leave, followed by another month riding a desk. No big deal."

"Really?" Charlie glared at Don from under his dark brows.

Damn, but Charlie was getting good at detecting obfuscation. "Okay, three weeks on leave and a month working out of a surveillance van." Don glanced at his watch. "It was ages ago. It's no big deal."

"Right," Charlie said softly. "Was that . . . was that the first time you got shot?"

Don had really wanted to avoid this conversation. Charlie didn't need to know this stuff. The less Charlie knew about his brother's Fugitive Recovery days, the better. "Yeah, it was. Look, it was years ago. Don't sweat it." Don rolled over to Charlie and slapped him companionably on the knee.

Charlie pressed his lips together and nodded distractedly. Don could tell he wasn't ready to let this go, but Don sure wasn't going to add to Charlie's data on this one. After a brief silence, Don rolled Megan's chair back to her desk with a push of his legs. As far as he was concerned, the case was closed.

"I blew you off. You got shot, and I blew you off." Charlie's voice was laden with remorse.

"Look, hey, no. Don't worry about it. You had better things to do than listen to your doped-up brother on a long-distance phone call." _Don't do this to yourself, buddy,_ Don wanted to tell his younger brother. _Don't obsess over something that happened years ago._

Charlie offered his brother a small smile, and Don took that opening to change the topic.

"You ready to go?" Don rose from Megan's chair and slid into his jacket.

Charlie nodded. "Sure." He rose and followed Don to the elevator.

Waiting in front of the elevator as the doors slid open, the men stepped aside to allow the occupants to exit. Ready to put Rachins and gunshot wounds and awkward phone calls out of his mind, Don gave the women a charming smile and offered them a professional but very friendly good afternoon. The brothers stepped into the elevator, and Don hit the button for the ground floor. Charlie watched the numbers above the doors light up as the car descended.

"You know something, Don?"

"What?"

"I'm glad you're back."

Don couldn't help but smile at the affection in his brother's voice. Sometimes Chuck said just the right thing. Sometimes, it didn't even involve math.

"Yeah? Well, so am I."

_finis_


End file.
